by Sherry Denecker

Created on: May 21, 2010   Last Updated: June 07, 2010

The Last Rose

The day my mother learned she had cancer time changed. At least it did for her. Instead of planning for the many happy years to come, her very life had been reduced to a matter of months, weeks and possible days. I remember her sitting quietly on the porch swing , with empty eyes staring off to a future she would never have. In the distance, her garden with its lovely flowers and intoxicating aromas gently called to her, as if to give comfort to the one who had cared so much for all that grew there. It was her work of art.

The gazeebo sat, unfinished in the middle of the garden. Another project that was planned for the future. I couldn’t help but think that it represented all the things in her life that would never come to completion. Now, it’s fate, along with the final plans for the garden was also uncertain. I watched from the window as she walked out among the lovely pallet of roses, stock and thyme. I felt her sadness as she knelt down by her favorite rose bush, her tears falling like a soft rain. I knew what had to be done.

That spring we became gardeners. All of us. Although collectively, we had never actually grown anything ourselves, there was no way we were going to let our Mother leave with an incomplete garden. I’ll always remember the surprise on her face when the whole family came out, with shovels in hand ready to make her dream a reality. Even my younger sister, who spent more time behind a mirror than any person on earth showed up in overalls, ready to work.

The smile on Mom’s face was priceless as we pondered “which end should be up” when we planted the bulbs, and how deep a hole should actually be for a rose bush. She delighted in our efforts and we thrived on her optimism.

Little by little the garden really began to take shape. We finished the gazeebo and planted roses all around it. They were always her favorite. We placed a comfortable chair in the middle so she could sit among the blooms and watch us work. And bloom they did. All summer long, an endless array of color and fragrance that soothed her during her most difficult times. By the close of the summer, Mom had grown too weak to make the walk out to the garden. The magnificent show of blooms was slowly coming to an end much like my mother’s own life. But she didn’t seem to mind.

One day, she asked if we could take her out to the garden one last time. While it may not of been the best medical practice, we carefully carried her out to the gazeebo and placed her in the chair. She was surrounded by the garden she loved so much and those who loved her so deeply. Nearby, the last of the roses bloomed. She gave us instructions for planting next year ,knowing full well she would not be part of the process. A few days later the last of the roses died off and my Mother left this earth.

Now every spring the whole family gathers to work the garden.. We all anxiously await the first blooming rose and the memories it brings to each of us. I can’t be sure, but on a quiet summer day, when you listen very carefully, I can still hear her whispers. Still guiding me perhaps on how to care for the garden?

When summer ends, and the last rose blooms I am not sad. For I know next year, when the season is right the roses will return again, and so will the good memories. The last rose will always be cherished at our house as a reminder of our labor of love for the one we miss so dearly.

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